


Hurricane Weather

by givemeunicorns



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, art shop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:14:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2351327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givemeunicorns/pseuds/givemeunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Wilson is consoler, who love photography and cute dudes. Steve Rogers just happens to run an art shop and be exactly Sam's type. The Paint Pot does carry photography equipment but Sam keeps finding reasons to come by anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurricane Weather

**Author's Note:**

> A plot bunny that has gotten out of control and will continue to do so I think. Just a heads up, this fic will talk about PTSD in soldiers, about Bucky losing his arm and steve chronic illness. I'll be tagging things as they come up but I wanted to make you guys aware of potentially triggery things.
> 
> my tumblr: givemeunicorns.tumblr.com
> 
> disclaimer: characters are not mine and i am doing this purely for my own enjoyment

The Paint Pot was a small, hole in the wall sort of place in the old part of town, tucked between an eclectic used bookstore and hip young coffee shop. Despite the brightly painted sign, he'd probably walked past it a dozen times and never paid it much attention.

It was Bucky who'd recommended it. He'd been coming to the VA for a few months now and the last few weeks had taken to showing up early, helping Sam set up drinks and cookies.

“Need a hand,” he'd asked, that first day, “I only got one, but I do good work.”

He'd said it with a smile that lacked the sort of darkness Sam was used to. Barnes had lost a lot more than an arm in the war, that he could joke about it was a sign of progress.

They'd struck up an odd sort of friendship, built around the narrow times of putting up and taking down chairs. They talked about little things, books they'd read, sports they watched, their close friends, and Bucky's girlfriend Natasha, who they were both constantly impressed by and a little bit scared of. They talked a lot about Bucky's best friend Steve, who'd been his wingman practically since the womb and kept Bucky kicking when the last thing he wanted to do was go on living. Bucky had mentioned that aspect of their friendship only in the privacy of his and Sam's sessions, but it added a layer of knowing to all the tales about his pal. Steve was an artist who ran a shop down by the university , the one who had told Bucky in no uncertain terms in the early days that he'd go to the sessions or be dragged there.

Sam had mentioned in passing he wanted to get back into photography. He had a bunch of stuff from his grandpa's old photography business just sitting in his basement, even had the perfect place for a dark room. But short of buying online, film and developer were hard to come by. He missed the art, but he figured the time and money just weren't feasible on a VA counselors income.

Bucky had shot him a smile that Sam couldn't quite place, before mentioning he knew a guy who might be able to get him what he needed. He'd scribbled down The Paint Pot's address, with a list of hours and a name. Ask for Steve, he'd said, and tell him Bucky sent you.

The bell tinkled almost as brightly at the brilliant blue door when Sam walked in.

“Be with you in a minute!” a voice called from somewhere in hall behind the counter.

“No problem,” Sam shouted back, “Just browsing.”

The place was a maze of paint and markers, pencils and canvas. There was one aisle all for wood pieces, another full of fabric and embroidery floss, like his grandma used to use. He spent a long moment pouring over calligraphy pens and ink, and entertained the idea of spending way too much money on a supple leather sketch book that felt like heaven in his hands. The walls were hung with oil paintings and framed sketches, and few pieces of stained glass hung in the windows. Sam sighed. He'd been in college the last time he'd been in some place like this. It almost made him feel old.

He came around one of the aisles just as a young man appeared from the behind the curtain of beads on the other side of the counter. He was small and pale and fair haired, barely half way over five feet and fine boned as bird. But the sleeves of his striped shirt were rolled up to the elbow and Sam saw the kid was inked from him slim wrists on up. There were more tattoo's on his hands and neck too, disappearing into his too big shirt. He wore thick glasses that were grandpa-ish and adorable all at once, and when he turned his head Sam was sure he caught a glimpse clear tubing that disappeared behind the curve of one ear.

He turned to Sam with a grin, smile lighting up his slim face and Sam felt his heart do that weird skip/jump thing it always did when he was around ridiculously attractive people.

“Hi there. Welcome to The Paint Pot,” he said pleasantly, in a deep, smooth voice that Sam didn't expect, “Can I help you with anything today?”

It took Sam a moment to shake the dumb look off his face.

“Umm yeah, I'm looking for a Steve Rogers? Friend of mine said he could help me out with some supplies.”

The kid smiled a little brighter, leaning on the counter with his spindly elbows.

“Well congrats, you found him,” he said, offering Sam a hand, “I'm Steve.”

The hand he offered was small and warm and strong in Sam's own and he was certainly not day dreaming about holding hands with this twenty something art enthusiast, thank you very much.

“Sam Wilson.”

The kid quirked a blonde brow and his grin widened, face softening into something like relief.

“You're Sam from the VA? Bucky told me about you,” he said with an edge to his voice, an unspoken sort of thanks that Sam was used to hearing but still made him blush, “talking to you, getting involved down there, it's done him a world of good.”

Sam shrugged, hands tucked in his back pockets.

“It's what I do. I'm glad it's helping him.”

“Well any friend of Buck's is a friend of mine. What can I do for you?”

“Well I'm actually looking for photography supplies, specifically 8mm film and developer.”

Steve brows furrowed.

“I'm really sorry, but I don't carry photography supplies, not even photo paper,” Steve said, rubbing at the back of his neck in a subtle, unconscious way that Sam found astoundingly attractive, “I could make few calls though? See if I can track someone down?”

“It's no problem,” Sam said, waving it off, “I know I can order the stuff online but Bucky mentioned you owned a supply place and I'm all about supporting local business.”

Steve's smile crept back and damn, if those lips didn't look like they were made for smiling, among other things.

“Still, sorry you came all the way down here for nothing. Can I help you with anything else?”

“I haven't been down this way much. Is there a place you recommend to grab coffee and a sandwich or something?”

Steve grinned, reaching across the counter, and handing Sam a card.

“The Grind Stone is pretty popular. It's just a couple blocks away and it's local too. They do sanwiches and stuff, hot tea, coffee. The works.”

Sam took the glossy card from between Steve's fingers. An idea stuck Sam while he was watching those cornflower blue eyes, and though he tried to talk himself out of it, the words were coming out of his mouth before he could stop.

“Shop sign says you close at four? It's fifteen til now. Would you like to join me? For coffee I mean.”

Steve blushed bright pink from his jaw to the rims of his over-sized glasses.

“Unless your busy,” Sam offered easily, trying not to seem disappointed. He knew not every slight, tattooed, handsome young man in this town was queer, at least in theory. Bucky had mentioned Steve going to Pride and helping at the LGBT youth center didn't mean he was actually queer himself. Or maybe Steve had a boyfriend? Bucky had mentioned in passing that Steve was single, several times actually, now that he thought about it, but that was a while ago, maybe things had changed. Maybe he just wasn't interest. Sam pushed away from the counter, offered an apologetic smile.

“ I won't be offended if you say no,” he said apologetically.

Steve waved his hands almost frantically.

“No!” He stumbled, “no, no it's not that. I mean, coffee sounds great. I mean, can't actually drink coffee but like grabbing something...a drink, with you, sounds awesome. Really awesome,” he beamed, “Umm just let me lock and grab my stuff.”

Sam cocked his head, watching the smaller man disappear into the back. Bucky had described Steve as an odd bird. It fit. Sam Wilson had never met a bird he didn't like.

 

~*~*~

They made ideal talk as they walked the two blocks from The Paint Pot to The Grind Stone, an eclectic little coffee place just off campus. They made the typical small talk, their jobs, the weather, their relationship to Bucky, their common denominator. Steve was ahead shorter than Sam and he walked with a sort of almost limp, he noticed, and Sam slowed down to match his pace. But Steve's presence was easy and companionable, and after a moment Sam didn't have to think about it.

Steve taught Sam the shops lingo, and after he'd just gotten down how to order exactly what he wanted at Starbucks in a reasonable amount of time. Sam got a fancy hazelnut latte type thing while Steve got a pot of green tea.

“You on a diet of something,” Sam teased gently, and Steve grinned.

“You think I got this skinny by trying,” Steve shot back, grinning. Bucky had said Steve had a sharp mouth, Sam was pretty sure he was all kinds of okay with that, “Coffee doesn't sit well with me. Green tea is always a safe stand by.”

Sam nodded, snagging them seats in the oversized arm chairs tucked in corner, by the window. It was sunny and warm, quiet enough for two people to have a pleasant conversation.

“Plus,” Sam shrugged, “It makes you appear both eclectic and enlightened.”

Steve pushed his glasses up on his nose, face one of mock superiority.

“Indubitably,” he said haughty, before cracking a smile and they both dissolved into laughter.

“Tell me about your self, Mr. Rogers,” Sam said, leaning back in his chair. Steve was folded into his like a cat, which Sam found both endearing and startlingly attractive at the same time.

Steve shrugged, easily.

“Sounds like Bucky's told you all the good stuff,” he sighed, “We grew up together, his parents took me in after my mom passed. After he left for the army, I went to school to be an art teacher, but that didn't work out, so I opened the paint pot. I do classes in the shop sometimes, and I volunteer doing art therapy a couple times a month. But yeah, that's me,” he said with a shrug.

Sam cocked his head.

“Don't you short change me here Rogers,” he said with a grin, “You're inked up from knuckles to neck and you're going to tell me those marks haven't good some great stories?”

Steve blushed again.

“Well, they say art imitates life right?”

“If you had to pick a favorite?”

Steve rolled his eyes dramatically.

“That's like asking me to pick a favorite child!” Steve squawked, with the biggest, prettiest grin Sam had ever seen, “You pick one, and I'll tell you about it.”

He pushed up the sleeves of his sweater, exposing his skinny forearms for Sam to see.

“I'll give you one better, we'll do this twenty questions style. I ask one, then you get one.”

Steve nodded agreeably and Sam scooted forward in his chair, examining Steve's ink in the late afternoon sunshine. The work was impeccable and Sam found his mind wondering to what the masterpieces were hidden under Steve's layers of cloths.

He caught Steve's hand in his own and the other man let out a small yelp, face coloring again in an expression that was only half embarrassment.

“This one,” Sam grinned, tapping the compass rose on the back of Steve's left hand. It was beautiful work, in shades of gold and brown, like something from an old map. But instead of directions, each of the four corners held a name. Bucky was south, Sarah was east, Natasha was west, and Peggy was north.

“The four most important people in my life,” Steve said, but his smile was a little sadder than before, “Reminds me that no matter what happens, where I go, how lost I get, I have people I can look to to get me back home again.”

“Will you tell me about them, or does that count as another question?” He asked, gently, giving Steve the room to refuse, but Steve's smile turned pleasant and sly again.

“One question per turn, Wilson. Thems the rules,” he shrugged, dropping back into his seat, fingers sliding across Sam's palm in a way that was way to enjoyable, considering they we're pretty much strangers.

“Alright shoot.”

Steve contemplated for a moment, as if staring into his tea cup would offer him the answers he wanted.

“Okay, how'd you get into photography?”

Sam couldn't choke back the bubble of laughter that escaped him. He'd pretty much forgotten why he'd gone to the shop in the first place; once he'd asked Steve for coffee, it hadn't seemed important anymore.

“My grandad taught me when I was a kid. He ran a business when he got out of the air force, when my mom was little. He taught me all about when I was teenager, trying to keep me out of trouble, I think, ” Sam told him, “He passed while I was deployed but he left me all his old photography equipment. Cameras, lens, enlargers, the whole outfit. I turned my basement into a dark room.”

“You get in trouble a lot as a kid?” Steve teased and Sam quirked a brow at him.

“One question per turn. Play by your own rules Rogers.”

~*~*~

Sam went to bed that night feeling like a teenager, Steve's number tucked on a scrap of napkin in his coat pocket.

Part of him wanted to hate how giddy he was, he was a grown ass man for goodness sakes. He'd done nothing more than had coffee and good conversation with a handsome man he'd just met and now he was walking on cloud nine. Sam didn't believe even marginally, in love at first sight. But he knew attraction well enough, and while Steve was his own particular brand of handsome, there was something about him that pulled Sam in like a magnet. Steve was bird boned and small, but there was a kind of resilience that lurked under his skin. At a glance, he looked as if a strong wind could blow him over, yet he etched what was important to him into his skin and wore each on like a badge of honor. They'd spent hours talking about everything in the world and with each new slip of information Sam had found himself increasingly enamored with the young artist. He was a total geek and not ashamed of it, because what was the use in being ashamed of what you like? He couldn't dance to save his life but loved music in every form. Sometimes when he was bored, he would color in white spaces in his skin not covered by permanent ink. He admitted to missing pop culture references more often than not, but give him a good history joke and he'd laugh for days. He loved art and people, wanted nothing more in the world to give the same joy to people that paper and pencil brought to him. He laughed easily and smiled freely in a way was almost infectious.

What stuck Sam most about Steve, though, was how he listened. It wasn't something Sam had noticed about people before he'd been deployed, hadn't really started noticing until he came home. Not until the fighting stopped but Riley kept falling every night in his dreams. Until walking down the street became a thing he had to brace himself for because sometimes, a car backfiring, people laughing, the smell of someone starting up a grill, felt too much like terror and death, and he was reaching for a gun he didn't carry anymore. Until idle hands made it harder to forget how many lives had slipped between his fingers, how many times all he could do hadn't been enough. Suddenly, he was falling apart, and people got it at first. But weeks turned into months, and months turned into years and better wasn't always the same as good. People didn't want to hear his nightmares, his stories about dying soldiers and the killing he'd had to do. People only had so much tolerance for damage when their own comfort was at stake. The pressure to be okay was sometimes more weight to carry than the memories themselves.He learned quickly to tell the difference between listening because they cared and listening to shut you up.

Steve listened as if every words, not matter how inconsequential the discussion, was important. Barnes had told him once that if it hadn't been for Steve, he'd be dead. That some days all that kept him breathing was the fact that Steve wouldn't let him die. Steve had been there, every day, pulling back the covers, shoving food and water into his remaining hand. He talked and talked, but mostly, Barnes said, Steve was there. Not just in body but in every conceivable way. All Bucky had to do was start talking on his own and Steve would drop everything, look his friend in the eye and listen.

“Steve's no bigger than a minute,” Barnes told him, “But he's got a hurricane will, I swear. Once he decides something, nothing short of an act of god can stop him.”

Sam shook his head against the pillow. Banes had him half taken with Steve Rogers before he even met him, the bastard. He probably did it on purpose.

~*~*~

“Heard you and Steve had coffee the other day,” Bucky said innocently the next day, already unfolding chairs for the group he was helping with.

Sam cocked an eyebrow at him.

“And I head he ain't carried photography supplies since the he opened the place,” Sam shot back.

Barnes' lips turned up in one of his cocky grins.

“Oh, ” he said with a shrug, “My bad. Sounds like it wasn't a day wasted though.”

Sam pointed an accusing finger at Barnes.

“You are so full of shit,” he called, heading to his office.

“I didn't tell you to ask him out. That was all you, man,” Barnes shouted back and Sam refused to turn around and reward barnes with the satisfaction of Sam's uncontrollable smile.

~*~*~

 

 


End file.
